by Adam Roberts, Guest Writer

Leap Day, 2020.

I’m in a concert hall downtown.

The lights are low, and the lingering scent of cannabis remains on the seat cushions upon which my partner and I rested our backs. With one hand around their shoulders, and the other carefully balancing a Blue Moon in-between the hands up-hands down motion of the beat, I let out a deep sigh.

I unfortunately have trouble staying awake in the evenings these days. When your mornings usually begin at around 4:30 and your body wants so badly to live a second-shift life, naturally the head drooping begins around nine in the evening. But tonight, I had to stay up; I couldn’t afford to miss the fruits of a great day’s work.

Earlier that afternoon, in a dimly lit living room that had been converted into a makeshift studio complete with shoddily-hung sound foam and a partition curtain that just wouldn’t hold together right, The People Brothers Band joined me for the third episode of Midwest Unplugged, my music interview-oriented podcast that at that point was still in its first month of production.

Having worked in radio broadcasting for the better part of ten years, I’m certainly not in a position to afford the nicest production environment, but all things considered it’s probably better this way. The conversation was genuine, the people were uncensored and lively, and with no set agenda or expectations that you might find in other interview environments, the whole thing felt like a sit-down chat with old friends that had been apart for years.

Immediately after our episode was recorded, the band mates bid me farewell and shuffled out into the stale late winter air to make a 4 o’clock sound check deadline for the show I would attend that night. Anyone who works in music knows that show night is the worst time for a group to make other plans, so the fact we could pull this off at all was nothing short of a miracle.

And to top it off, they blew the roof off the Cavalier Theatre; my normally drowsy self was sucked completely into the peace-loving octet’s message of inclusion, peace, and tasty jams.

I should have bottled that feeling and started selling it knowing what lay ahead…

The Record Scratch Goes Here.

I won’t bore you with the details of everything that has unfolded in my life the past six months. Likely, it mirrors in some way what has happened in yours: sent home to work in mid-March, torn over how to vote safely, whether to wear a mask or not, hearing a million voices attempting to prove their stance on if a social issue is the correct one morally, and afraid to go anywhere near some of the people I love most in the world.

But the worst part of it all was seeing a project I was certain was destined for an amazing year one be put completely on the shelf. There was no new music to discuss, no bands to safely bring into record an episode with, and a podcast was the last thing on my mind as I worried about my financial, mental, and physical well-being like everyone else. 

And yet, any difficulty I have dealt with over the last half year is minuscule compared to what has been going on in the world of music, particularly for managers of independent music venues around the country.

As of the time I’m writing this, over 60 independent venues have already closed their doors permanently, and many more are likely to follow.

The National Independent Venue Association (NIVA) predicts that if proper funding isn’t given from both state and federal resources, around 90 percent of all independent venues in the country will close for good.

Given what my passion and podcast is centered around, this is of course the last thing I want to see happen.

But, like many other things during a global pandemic, the feeling of powerlessness can sometimes overwhelm.

Even in the brightest of times, we can often feel a sense of hopelessness when a problem seems just too massive to overcome.

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How can you stay hopeful, when voices all around you would seem to indicate it’s a fruitless endeavor?

Well, just like any good interview, sometimes you have to dig a bit deeper.

I thankfully have been able to restart things with Midwest Unplugged, albeit in a less than desirable format over video calls. And after testing the waters with some good conversations about everything that’s going on, I decided to try and do my part, however small, to spread the word about the problem facing small venues.

This effort yielded a number of great guests, perhaps the most intriguing of which was Gary Witt. Gary co-founded the NIVA organization I mentioned before, and also has been an integral part of Milwaukee’s music scene for nearly two decades. If anyone would know a thing or two about what kind of massive undertaking was required, it would be Gary.

As the call began, many of the obvious negative consequences of a nationwide lockdown to venues piled up, and that feeling of staring up a giant mountain began to overtake me again. I didn’t want to let on that I was feeling overwhelmed, but I sensed he could see it in my face.

As the interviewer, you always want to keep the conversation on track, and despite it being a big part of my job and life, I’m not always perfect at keeping my mind from drifting and thinking about a million things. And it’s here where a veteran of these types of things was so great to talk to: rather than keep a one-track mind and allowing me to start overthinking and worrying, Gary began to talk about the link between venues and the communities they’re a part of.

It’s easy to look at just a venue needing funding as another business asking for money amongst many. When compared to industries like healthcare and the postal service, the average person may look at a coffee shop, concert hall, or theatre and wonder why something used namely for arts and entertainment should receive COVID-19 funding in the same way as hospitals or essential services buildings. 

Think of the Community Role.

We really should think of all that goes into a typical concert experience.

Think of a time you went to see a show in your community before the pandemic. I feel pretty confident in saying that your whole experience wasn’t exclusively at the venue itself. You likely went out to eat beforehand, maybe grabbed a drink before the show, and depending on how early you headed out and where the show was, did some window shopping around the area where the show was.

The trickle-down effect of people going to a show is evident in the business it brings to all the businesses and other places of interest immediately around it.

Independent venues act like economic magnets for potential consumers in a community. And it’s not just newcomers: lifelong veterans of a city who haven’t had a chance to go out in ages might treat their trip to see a new act at the venue as their one opportunity for a while to treat themselves to something fun.

That ice cream shop a block down the street might have its best day of the year when a swath of hungry potential customers walk down to the theatre on a hot summer day. Or maybe that cigar lounge signs up a record number of new members as people look for a warm place to spend time before the doors open.

And, just maybe, that concert exposes a traveler to a new city to fall in love with.

I have heard of this happening personally; in normal years, thousands make their way to my town, La Crosse, WI, for the annual Oktoberfest celebration. For some, it’s their first time to the region, and many are drawn to the natural landscape that surrounds us. The festival and the performances draw them in while the environment and people convince them to stay.

Gary helped me remember that our fight is not just for a building or for a place for bands to play. It’s a fight for keeping a lifeline of many of our communities alive through the most difficult challenge some have ever faced. 

It’s a fight for every employee, big or small, who’s love for the arts and entertainment runs through that venue. From the executive directors and CEOs to the attendants, bartenders, custodians, electricians, front of house staff, plumbers, and roofers who’s professional livelihood runs through that epicenter of art and commerce.

It’s a fight for, in many ways, a critical piece of the American experience: a place to show off the fruits of your labor and expose someone to a new interest they never knew of before.

It’s a fight I’m proud to take up, whatever my role will be.

Am I an Interviewer, or a Seamster?

It can often be difficult to see the role we play in the grand scheme of the world.

A generation raised on participation awards sometimes can be led astray into thinking that everything they do is deserving of praise and recognition. And that same generation may often believe that anything which isn’t liked 10,000 times, shared around the world, and reacted to by strangers on Youtube isn’t worthy of the work.

Maybe a pandemic is just what we need to step back and acknowledge the little things we do that actually leave a bigger impact than we realize.

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Businesses and livelihoods are hanging by threads right now, and every person who chooses to patronize these businesses rather than venture to a big box or chain store is sewing another thread into the material of that local company. And through the experience, I’ve learned my role is to be that seamster; if even one person ends up joining the fight, then I’ve done a pretty darn good job.

My hope for these uncertain times, even if division still exists, is that on the other side of things we show just a tad more appreciation for all the cogs that make our economy work, especially the small ones.

Those tiny cogs produced magic on that stage all those months ago for me, and though it sounds silly, maybe I’ll invent a time machine, bottle that magic, and distribute it to the masses so that we’ll all do whatever it takes to feel that way more often!

Then again, maybe I’m just a crazy dreamer. Who knows?

Have you lost one of your favorite music venues to the pandemic? Let us know in the comments.

About the Author

My name is Adam Roberts, an intrepid 27 year old broadcaster with dreams of shaking hands with Geddy Lee. I think since I was 16, 63.8 percent of my life has been spent in front of or near a microphone, and yet I still wince sometimes when listening to myself speak!

When I’m not working, I’m still working. Specifically on my podcast Midwest Unplugged, a place for musicians and artists to share their stories, good or bad. Our latest project, the Save Our Stages Series, served as the inspiration for this article.

For real this time, when I’m not working, I enjoy spending time with my partner fishing and exploring the environment around me. I’ve also tried my hand at recreating some Bob Ross paintings, but oils are pretty expensive.

I’m hopeful that if you’ve made it all the way to the bottom you enjoyed my writing. I’m always looking to improve, so let me know what you think. Also, if you’re an artist from the Midwest US and have a story to tell, I want to help you share it!

Email me at mwunplugged@gmail.com.

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Credit: Title photo by Jacob Bentzinger on Unsplash. Graphics by Brandi Fleck.